


The End of You

by unstable_gay_writer15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending, Cas' body is a wreck, Dean Hallucinates, Dean's broken, Evil Castiel, Horror, Hospitals, I Don't Even Know, I might write a sequel, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Multi, Physical Abuse, Sad Ending, Sam Is Looking For Dean, Scared Dean, Season 7 AU, Teasing, The Leviathan Take Dean At The End Of Season 7, This Is NOT A Happy Endng, To A Hospital, Torture, breaking bones, different set up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unstable_gay_writer15/pseuds/unstable_gay_writer15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean isn't strong, he isn't a hero, he's not even a hunter anymore. He's lost and trapped, no one is going tofind him and he's not sure he wan't to, knowing the cause of his pain has the body of his best friend. </p><p>(I royally suck at descriptions, please just read? if you can think of a better description than me, be my guest and comment your ideas.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of You

There’s a coldness to his touch now, one he can’t remember being there before. Surely it wasn’t.

He can’t seem to imagine a malevolent gesture from Castiel at all, but then again it’s getting hard to see him in an endearing way anymore. It’s slowly being washed away like a stain, languidly being erased, forgotten until there’s just a white and crisp canvas left. He hasn’t felt a gentle touch from his rough and callused hands in so long, it’s becoming a ghost of a memory.

His eyes aren’t the same, any of the forgivingness and tenderness his once soft blue eyes held is gone. Replaced with cold, hard and unforgiving orbs, staring mercilessly at whatever caught his feral attention. He wonders if he sees things the same anymore, his mind certainly ticks differently.

Everything, really, is different. He’s doubting it’s even the same body anymore. It’s been altered in so many ways, does it even count as human anymore–well, angel really.

But, upon thinking, it’s not a he anymore at all, not a she, nor an it. It’s a they. No, he can’t remember the last time they referred to themselves as a singular being. Not since becoming what they are now anyways. There’s something about that, the fact theres an uncountable amount of creatures inside of one being, it makes his skin crawl, electing tiny bumps across his arms, his hairs standing on end.

He’s ripped from his thoughts as a cold hand runs up his spine, his chest bare of any shirt he once wore. Clothes hardly mean anything, they don’t serve a purpose because it never stopped them from getting to what’s underneath, his skin. It never stopped the caressing and cutting and touching. It didn’t provide any comfort, the clothes did nothing.

When they speak, the voice is crackling and it sounds like echoes. It’s not a singular voice really, but a multitude of voices, varying in pitches and lengths. “Good morning” it’s a hiss, really. Maybe it’s an attempt at a quiet or a soft voice. Something soothing. Instead, it’s left chills running up his spine, a bone too well seen now.

It’s been months sense the leviathan took Castiel’s body and called it home. Tore the Angels Grace and being apart and swallowed him dry. Months sense Dean has seen Sam, or anyone at all really. Months sense Dean has eaten something other than the disgusting scraps of whatever unfortunate animal they’d come across and ripped to shreds. Dropping it at his bare and bloodied feet, roaring out in a fit of maniacal laughter, watching him as he stared at the bloody mass of raw meat and crushed bones. After a while he’d started salvaging what he could, just so he could stay alive, even though the meat would make him unbearably sick. The inconsistency in time between meals made Dean’s legs weak and his vision blur, he was getting better at saving it up though. Keeping the meat just in case his next meal didn’t come so soon. His skin was tight around his seemingly frail bones, his once muscular and meaty arms were now reduced to easily bruised skin. His hip bones jutted out awkwardly, his cheeks hallow, cheekbones sharp. It had been months sense Dean felt safe.

“We’re going to play…” They drawled, slowly undoing restraints a stronger Dean would have easily freed himself from. That was one of the more insulting things about this, how he could have–once– escaped this so easily. “Come on now…” They coaxed, nudging him forwards with long, boney fingers. They aren’t like Cas’, it’s like the bodies been starved, deformed.

Dean stumbles, catching himself with his hand before he hits the cement floors of the building, Deans prison. He can’t remember where they are, not that it matters. It’s huge, a hospital once. A maze. His hands tremble at the thought of playing with them again. The clawing and the cutting, the harsh and spiteful things these creatures have to say, but they have had trillions of years to think about it. Each word. They corner him, breaking him a thousand times, over and over without cease until they are satisfied with their work. Leaving him a shaking, sobbing and pathetic mess on the floor, in one of the many rooms of the hospital.

They’d gotten to the point that Dean let himself cry, no one would see it anyways. Besides them. Dean would sob over the words they spat at him, the knifes they buried deep into his skin. Partially because they ended the torment early some days if he cried, and partially because he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t contain the bitter overwhelming feeling of every year of his life, crashing down on him like never before.

Slowly, he rose to his full height, standing as tall as possible, still feeling so small in wake of them. They watched him inch slowly forwards, to the door in the room. They’d wait until he touched the handle, then they’d chase him. Catch him. Break him.

Several of them laugh, creating an unbalanced rumble to erupt in their throat. They enjoy watching him struggle so early in, it makes them feel stronger, and not wrongly so. They are stronger. In every way.

Dean finally releases a breathe he didn’t know he was holding, pushing the door open and breaking into a sprint. Adrenaline pumps through his body, it always does, even if it’s hopeless. There’s still a spark of hope, right? There has to be an exit. Sweat slowly beads across his bloody and dirty forehead, he’s naked, mostly, skin sticky and grimy–not that hygiene or self respect and dignity mean anything to him anymore– it’s uncomfortable, but it just drives him faster. His hearts pounding in his ears, too loud to tell if they’re behind him.

Suddenly, There’s a hand, then two, and he’s being pulled back forcefully, body jolted back into their waiting body. Cackling loudly as they do so, sounding like a strangled animal. “No, no, no, you made it further last time.” They scold half heartedly, grin widening impossibly big, it should be impossible, but it happens anyways, skin splitting slightly at the corners, beads of black oozing out slowly. Eyes crazed with hunger and excitement. One of the most terrifying expressions they have.

Dean trembles, panting, not bothering to struggle because he knows, in the end it’s useless. He’s scared, and he should be.

“Our turn.” They screech, excitement building. “You lose, again.” They enjoy insulting and belittling him, making him feel small. “We won!”

Dean nods, terrified to displease it–them. He learned early on not to do that. Just to listen and agree, act as it wants. He knows what comes next, but it doesn’t stop the absolutely horrific scream that rips it’s way out of his throat, begging and screaming nothing comprehensible as they drag him carelessly down the hall to a new room.

3732

They drag him in by the wrist, letting him flail and scream and beg the whole way because they’re stronger, and they like it better when he’s begging, pleading and helpless. They push him down, watching with mild amusement as he collapses to his knees in hysterics, frantic to get out of this as he sees this room. This ones different. There’s a big table and there’s lights dangling from the ceiling, the bulbs long dead, trays scattered on the filthy ground with the cracked tiles. Used syringes lay on the floor, scalpels, shelves. There are unused needles too, full of oddly colored liquids, bottles full of liquid and others with pills. It’s terrifying. Leaves and dirt scatter the floor, along with glass and various other things including trash. There’s not a single window in the building though, they’ve been bricked up. The only light is from cracks in walls, lights that they turn on sometimes. This room though, it’s so much more terrifying than any other room he’s been in.

“You son of a bitch!” And once, that might have sounded angry, confident. Now, it comes out as more of a go-to reflex. Dean tries to stand but forceful hands push his shoulders down until he’s kneeling again. “Stop!” He yells frantically, forgetting not to displease them, though he always does at some point.

They continue their horrendous laughter, screeching and cackling as they circle him, keeping a hand on his shoulder at all times, just to hold him still while he trembles. Finally they yank him up again, a heavy pop sounding from his shoulder. They push and pull, tugging and shoving and gripping him, making him stumble, unable to keep up. It’s almost like they’re fighting inside, instead of working as one, they’re many more. Indecisive what comes first. Finally, they’re pushing him forwards, hands on the sides of his ribs, shoving him into the base of the table.

Gripping and scratching, they find their way around his body, helping to move his body onto the table. Dean’s frantic but they hardly seem to notice his thrashing, or the fact he’s managed to cut them several times with long overgrown fingernails, he’s screaming too, but they don’t seem to really mind.

There are restraints on the table, leather, worn and cracked, ugly but still holding strong. Strong enough for Dean especially, he knows it’s been a very long time sense he last ate and its leaving his body shaky and weak. They fasten his wrists first, amused at his frantic kicking, pulling at the restraints, screams. They simply remove a blade from what was once Castiel’s coat and dig it’s point into Deans leg, watching blood trickle and listening to wretched screaming and agony pour from his cracked lips. His body tenses effectively and they strap his ankles down too.

“Very good, so good.” They croon, lapping at the blood pooling on the table Dean’s laying on. It’s disgusting, watching the body of what was once his friend, replenish from his own blood. They leave the knife, uncaring. “Our turn, remember,” they hiss, studying his body closely, only taking interest in the fragile, the easily broken parts. They claw his chest lightly, watching white skin raise in irritation, soft pink blossoming around the lines of claw marks. “Useless, lost, very lost..” They continue, their words coming out more of a chant than probably intended. “You’re lost…” They affirmed, as if letting him know. Not that this was news to Dean, he’d been lost for months, trying relentlessly to find himself again. Find a way out. Running but never getting anywhere. “So we’re going to help you.”

Dean chokes slightly on his own saliva, sweat pooling at his temple. His breathes are sharp and erratic, like he just ran a mile. He’s trying to swallow down his fear, trying to maintain control when in reality he has none and he never did. He’s terrified to see what they mean, they don’t want to help him that’s for sure. They’re pacing, the gentle and steady clicks of Castiel’s shoes echoing in the room, though they aren’t really his anymore, are they. When they speak, it’s a low growl in his ear, cold breath hitting his pale and sweaty skin. “Help you realize….”

Dean stiffens, trying to hold his breath as if that’ll make them stop, he can’t even do that. His breathes are too heavy and diverse in speed to calm. They step back, taking hold of deans hand, their own is cold and boney, knuckles grinding into the soft of Deans Palm. “You let us take him, eat him, swallow him down.” They laugh and Dean screams as they break his first finger. One reminder of what they said and what Dean did. Guilt overtakes him and he feels sick, stomach acid mixing unpleasantly with his empty stomach. They’re walking circles around him now, leaving his bruising and swelling hand alone. They’re teasing him.

After a minute, they last of the deep echoing laughter of some of the leviathan calm into silence again. Dean’s watching them, horror clear and easily read. They then grab his other hand, causing him to break into a fit of begging and screaming, struggling to free himself of something he simply can’t free himself of. “You left your brother too, alone and reckless.” They draw out these words, making sure each Syllable is clear and crisp. Scorching it into his brain, words he’ll never forget. “He’s going to fight a fight he can’t win, and he’s going to fight alone, because of you.” They break another finger, screams forcing their way from Dean’s raw throat, pain throbbing in both hands, blood rising under his skin, bruising and swelling.

They continue their teasing, pacing back and fourth, circling him, poking and scraping over his broken hand. They continue until each and every single finger on his hands are broken, bone breaking through the skin in some places, a metallic stench of blood lightly starting to fill the air, blood trickling down his hands, onto the cold metal table.

Eventually, they let him get up, assuring him he’ll be just fine, though he can hear some of them laughing. There’s no way, he realizes, he’ll be able to defend himself, escape, do anything really with his hands the way they are. Even though he doesn’t dare try to move his hands, doing nothing hurts enough, he can’t imagine moving them. His hands are useless, cripple. It’s not until he’s laying on the floor of his usual room they always take him back to, laying on his back trying to breathe through the pain coursing through his trembling body, that he realizes, in all his time here, all the running he’s done, they never hurt him that much. His breath gets caught in his throat, heart feeling heavy as if it stopped beating, his mind racing. What if he almost got out? What if he was close? They teased him of escape, but it never came.

In theory, if he was close to an exit, that would give them reason to do what they did. To wound him, stop him from escaping.

That’s when he felt something settle in his stomach, something he hadn’t felt in months, something he’d grown numb too. His incessant need to protect his brother, to help him and make sure that no matter what Sammy was always safe. In the end, he’d stopped fighting for himself, it was for Sam, it always had been. He needed to watch after Sam, that was his one job. There was a gentle prickle in the back of his eyes as gentle tears welled up, he shut his eyes to stop them, only causing one to slowly maneuver down the now sharp and jagged features of his once soft face. He had to get out, he had to get his brother because he’d already lost everyone else and he certainly wasn’t going to lose him too. He’d lost his mother, his father–both fathers really, and he’d lost Jo and Ellen, Ash, he’d lost his unstable, crazy, makeshift family and he’d lost Castiel. So, when it came down to it, Sam didn’t have anyone either, so Dean had to be that person. He would get out, and he would get his brother. He would fix this no matter what, piece back together whatever had been broken.

______________

He woke late, heavy eyes slowly opening, burning from his shed tears the night before. Usually, they would have woken him by now, they always did, right before the sun came up. Not today.

Dean felt disturbingly rested, he couldn’t remember when he last slept more than a hour of undisturbed sleep. Usually disrupted by the Leviathan or by nightmares, shaking him awake, leaving him out of breath and scared. The room, was also silent, filled only by the soft sound of Dean’s gentle breathing. He looked around, searching for the familiar form of Castiel’s tattered figure, bloody and bruised skin, something they no doubt could have healed but seemingly enjoy the look, the pain and guilt that so clearly spread across Dean’s face when he takes a longer look. He doesn’t see them. The room’s void of them, it’s only Dean. He went to sleep with them watching him, gurgling laughter rising in their throat occasionally as they watched him cry himself to sleep. He didn’t hear them go, almost any sound wakes him now, he’s always so on edge.

He struggles, bitting down on his dry and cracking lip as he brings himself to his knees, his hands bloody and bruised, more swollen than Dean would have thought possible. They feel stiff. Soon, he was standing, his stomach gave a painful clench, reminding him of how long it’s been sense he long finished the scraps of bloody and raw meat.

Oh. That’s where they are.

They’re getting him food, scraps, mangled flesh, fur, blood. Those are the times they’re gone, when they’re chasing something down, teasing and taunting something that will never escape them anyways.

So he runs. He forces himself up, grits his teeth through the pain and pushes open the heavy metal door. They might catch him, they might punish him and torture him for this, but he has to try. He runs down the hall, same way as yesterday, and he keeps going until he finds himself stumbling to an uncoordinated halt, stumbling forwards, nearly having to catch himself with his hand. There’s three options.

He can keep going ahead, bringing his heaving, tired body into total blackness. He can go left, to which there seems to be a long continuing hall, scattered with various rooms. Or, his final option, right. Through a big, half broken down door, the hall behind it significantly smaller. He places his elbows on his knees, carful of his hands, breathes fast and shallow, he shuts his heavy eyes, sweat soaking his body. He’s hyper aware of every little noise, and his lack of time. He can’t go down all three, not enough time. Greater chance of them finding him out of his room.

He stands up fully, taking a deep breath as he turns right, immediately paling. Down the hall, past the door hanging by a single hinge, there’s Castiel’s form, stumbling down the hall, towards him, seemingly unaware of Dean’s presence. They’re limping, fresh blood of some unfortunate animal coating their hands, shoes, coat. Dean can’t move, fear pulses through his body, beginning to shake violently, he’s sure if he moves he’ll be noticed, his breathes are coming out significantly faster now, they’ll kill him. No question. Devour him, like they did Castiel.

They’re slowly growing closer, Dean takes a step back finally, but it’s not enough, nothing will be. He could run, faster than he ever has, even at full strength, he’d never manage to escape their grasp, his impending end.

Dean chokes back a panicked sob, breathing out a breathy “no” before they look up. Dean’s eyes are wide, he’s exposed, naked, and impossibly scared. He’s staring into usually cold, unforgiving, black nothingness. They aren’t. No, this time they’re different, at first Dean thinks it could be rage. Cold and deep, honest rage, something hasn’t seen them express before. Upon further looking, it seems less likely, it’s something else, clearly. It’s nearly impossible to read this expression, possibly because the only thing close to an emotion he’s ever seen on their face is amusement. Dean wants to laugh as he places it, his heads spinning, this look, it’s pleasurable to see on them for once.They’re scared.

Their eyes seem broken, and it’s delicious until they’re in all aspects familiar. There’s something deeply rooted to this expression, something that wipes that crazed grin from Dean’s lips in an instance. they’re blue. A soft, gentle blue. Like the sky on a clear and warm day in the heat of summer. They can’t be, but they are, they’re Cas. His Cas, his angel. Those frightened, wavering eyes of deep meaningful blue are Castiel’s.

Then, they collapse. Trench coat crumpling and fanning out around his shaking form.

Dean’s seeing spots. Before he’s aware, he’s moving towards his tormentor, and quickly, with urgency. It isn’t Castiel. Castiel, is undeniably dead. There is not a way this is Castiel, but there also isn’t a way that it is not Castiel.

He skids, smoothly kicking his left leg out to catch himself as he slides down to Cas’ level. Not Cas, Leviathan. He’s trying to talk, he realizes, and he’s not so sure he isn’t. His mouth is moving but rasping air is all that comes out, every shaky word lodging itself in his overly dry throat. His ears are ringing too, everything feeling slow and crushing. “Cas” he manages, unsure what to do, unable to touch. Only stare.

Eyes slowly open, meeting Dean’s almost instantly. They’re bloodshot, blue and dull, they’re undoubtedly Castiel’s eyes though. He looks helpless and it makes Dean’s stomach turn. He has to help him, doesn’t he? Though there is a high probability, really, that this isn’t Castiel at all. The leviathan playing tricks, laughing internally at Dean’s weakness and gullibility. He did watch them rip him apart after all, there was no Castiel anymore. His mind is at war, wanting to believe it’s him, unable by the way his heart pounds warningly in his chest.

Suddenly there’s a screaming sob ripping it’s way from their throat, his throat? It echoes in the small hallway, every ounce of terror, guilty and pain detectable in his scream. Dean’s startled back slightly, eyes wide and it takes a moment to realize there are words mixed in with the screeches. Pleads. Sometimes it’s Dean’s name, amongst other things.

Dean can’t control himself as he pull’s him into his arms, he’s cradling him like a child. Shushing him, trying relentlessly to calm his crazed sobs, seemingly to no avail. He’s pushing his own problems, emotions away in an instant, reflex and routine taking hold again. “Shh, Cas, I’ve got you…” It isn’t until he says it, that he realizes he’s actually holding him. His angel.

 

Dean continues holding Cas, hushing him, rocking him gently, doing anything and everything he can to calm him. He losses his sense of time, no idea how long he’s knelt there holding him. He’s stopped thinking too, really. He’s focused on calming and comforting his frantic angel, not thinking about the fact he shouldn’t be alive, that he shouldn’t be trusting him, he’s ignoring those thoughts.

Eventually, Cas is calm enough that he’s no longer screaming–though Dean questions if it’s just because he’s lost his voice–he’s shaking gently against Dean, his hands grabbing shakily at nothing, sucking in little hiccupy breathes. His hair’s more messy than Dean has ever seen, dark hair sticking up in various directions, some matted in blood. His heads lulling against Deans chest, light.

“There you go, you’re okay…” Dean coos, unaware he was able to talk like this anymore, he hadn’t spoken like that sense Sammy was little. When he’d calm him from nightmares.

Cas shook his head frantically in response, to which Dean frowned. They stayed there, continuing back and forth with Dean’s comforting and Cas’ sudden outbursts of panic, but besides that, it’s otherwise quiet. Dean doesn’t ask questions and Castiel doesn’t talk.

Dean nearly drops Cas when he hears someone shout. Dean’s eyes widened when he realized what he heard, everything in his body was telling him to stay quiet, protect Cas, it wasn’t true. Cas was asleep now, he realized, and Dean broke down and went against his mind anyways. Calling out in panic. “Sam, Sammy?!” He tries, getting silence in response. “SAM!”

Nothing. Though the yelling is definitely getting Cas more upset, it might wake him up, so he stops.

More panic rises in his voice as he calls out again. His heart hasn’t beaten this fast in a long time, which is surprising, considering the uncountable, horrendous times that they played with him, tortured him. Then, there’s distant pattering. Quiet echoes, growing louder, more solid, closer.

“Dean?!”

It’s Sam. No doubt. Dean, he hasn’t trusted anyone, or anything–let alone himself-in a very long time. However, there isn’t a doubt in his mind that it’s Sam. He can’t move, partially from shock, his whole body is practically vibrating with anticipation, but, it’s also that he’s holding a completely broken man in his arms. He doesn’t dare move him, he’s just starting to get to a rem sleep, though the Angels body is still wracked with shaking, and his breath isn’t quite normal. He’s not sure he wants to yell again, he pities Castiel too much for that.

Then he’s there, mere feet from Dean, skidding to a halt as he turns the corner, eyes falling to Dean. His floppy hair bouncing against his face as he slowly walks towards his brother.

There’s such great relief, everything has slowed down and Dean can feel warmth and protection enclose himself as his brother quickly crouches down by him.

He can feel everything so clearly, it’s all crisp and warm and absolutely safe. He can feel Sam’s heavy breathes against his face, he can feel the chills that claim Cas’ body. He can feel the sense of safety and familiarity as Sam pulls him forwards, as he wraps his arms around him, pulling his rigid body against Sam’s firm and healthy one.

He feels the beauty in it all, the little things he never cared about before, it’s so much more important now. He feels the pain in it, when Sam’s arm comes to his front. He says something, though Dean can’t quite grasp what it is before Sam is plunging a knife into his stomach.

Dean chokes, the familiar taste of iron filling in nose and mouth. His breathes are getting caught in his throat, pain pulsing through his body into numbness. Cas is gone, his hands are healed, they have been for a while he realizes, and when he looks up, it isn’t Sam.

It’s them. It’s Castiel’s body, of course, but it isn’t his brother and it isn’t his Cas either. They grin, twisting the knife as a scream forces it’s way out of his throat, he’s finally lost his sanity, he knows. He never found Cas, nor his brother, and he never left his room.

They’re angry though, so angry, and it hardly comes as a surprise, so much as a relief when they start snapping his bones. It hurts, god it hurts, though it’s getting harder to tell it all apart.

It doesn’t hurt in the end, and no one could say if it’s the knife that ended him as his vision faded to black, his ears silenced from bloody screams, or if it was when they snapped his neck.

There’s a scream, a final, desperate plea that forces it’s way out of him as he realizes he won’t make it out, something that doesn’t sound like Dean. Like a hunter. Like a Winchester. Then, there’s a snap, silence, a thud as his body falls to the floor. Then, well, then there’s nothing.

Nothing, until Sam does come, until Sam does find his brother. Nothing until it was too late.


End file.
